Hello, It's Nice to Meet You
by RockinJanelle
Summary: It all started when they were in elementary school. Five Times prompt. Mystrade. One-shot. PG.


**Title: **"Hello, It's Nice to Meet You"  
><strong>Pairing: <strong>_Mycroft/Lestrade  
><em>**TV Show: **_BBC Sherlock  
><em>**Word Count: **_~9000_  
><strong>Rating: <strong>PG  
><strong><br>A/N: **KLAJFLDSKFMDSKLJFEIOR DO YOU UNDERSTAND HOW MUCH FRUSTRATION WENT INTO THIS FIC?

NO.

BECAUSE I DON'T LIKE IT.

But I'm publishing it anyway LOL

This took me forever. And I hope you enjoy it? I don't know, I hated writing this so much. I got frustrated so many times because I deleted so many prompts that didn't fit with the story line. And it's rushed. And the writing sucks. I JUST DON'T LIKE IT.

Enjoy, I guess!

**x x x x x x x x x x x x x **

**The Five Times Lestrade Says "Hello" to Mycroft**

**I.**

The first time was when they were children. They both won't remember who they are until in later years, but Mycroft will write his name down in an obscure notebook, perhaps wanting to try to remember in later years (it would not succeed until far into his future). They were on a playground, and Mycroft was sitting on one of the swings.

Mycroft didn't have too many friends, not ones that wanted to waste his time. His one true friend was his brother, but he was too young to become a nuisance. His other friend was a woman, and she was there only because he offered her food for information on the playground (he liked knowing who was who, especially if someone was a threat to his plan to rule the school, which would not succeed either).

While merrily swinging away, watching the others play, he saw a pair of legs stick out beside him. The boy next to him wanted to swing. "Hello," the little boy said. "My name's Greg, but I like being called Lestrade," Mycroft only stared.

"I'm Mycroft," he said back. Lestrade laughed a bit.

"I know who you are! All the kids talk about you!" Mycroft frowned.

"Do you talk about me?"

"No, but I'd like to get to know you and be your friend!"

Mycroft couldn't help but smile. "I'd like that too. Very much so," Lestrade smiled back.

Then he looked at him in confusion, wanting to ask something. Mycroft was prepared for whatever it was. "But, can I ask what kind of a name that is?" Mycroft was offended.

"My mom named me!" Lestrade just laughed some more, swinging higher and higher. Mycroft was jealous of his height, so he started to swing. He would have to get his female companion to check in on this Lestrade character. He seemed safe enough, and was friendly and kind. Also generous, seeing how he gave one of the injured boys a band-aid earlier. Mycroft just didn't know who he was.

"What grade are you in?" Lestrade asked as he swung higher.

Mycroft went flying down to the ground, then back up again. "First," he replied. Lestrade grinned.

"Me too! Do you like your teacher?" Mycroft gripped the chains on the swing and frowned as he pushed downward. No, he thought, he didn't really like her. She was a little oblivious to her surroundings.

"Not really," he replied. Lestrade nodded in agreement and looked down at Mycroft.

"Me neither. My teacher doesn't like giving out snacks."

"That's not fair!" Lestrade chuckled.

"I know!" Higher and higher they went, until they were both the same height, both swinging at the same rhythm. Every time Mycroft caught himself looking at Lestrade, Lestrade would smile. And when Lestrade looked at Mycroft, Mycroft flushed. He was very flustered around strangers, and shy when they actually talked to him.

Then, a proposition came about. "Hey, do you wanna be friends?" Mycroft was still swinging, but it came as a shock. No one ever asked to be friends with him. And Lestrade would be the first one! Mycroft had a huge smile on his face.

"Sure!" He replied. Lestrade started to laugh.

"Cool! Say, do you wanna jump off the swings?" Mycroft always wanted someone by his side.

"Okay! I've never done it before," Lestrade look at him with a surprised look on his face.

"Really? It's easy! Just jump when you are going down and up! Here, I'll count to three and we'll both jump together," Mycroft was a bit wearied about the idea, but agreed to it anyhow. "Okay, ready?" Mycroft nodded. He was anxious, very anxious. "One," Mycroft and Lestrade felt the wind on their backs, then swung again. "Two," Lestrade held on tight to his chains; Mycroft did the same. "Three!" Lestrade was the first to jump, followed by Mycroft.

They both made it safely down to Earth again, both of them laughing. Mycroft flipped on his back and continued to laugh. "That was fun!" Lestrade agreed.

"Yeah it was! Wanna go play with the others?" Mycroft didn't have 'others'. He only had Lestrade. And that was enough. Instead, Mycroft sat up in the sand and pointed at the slides.

"How about we go play on the slides together," Lestrade's eyes lit up as Mycroft turned back to him.

"Yes! Yes, I'd love to!" Lestrade jumped from the sand and took his friend's hand. Mycroft felt his face heat up just a little bit as he was running with his friend to the slide. They would have fun, until recess was over. They gave little goodbyes, told each other they would be back the next day, and left each other's side.

Lestrade didn't show up at school after that. Mycroft investigated about it a few months later, after waiting on the swings the whole time. He was transferred.

**II.**

The second time was years and years later, a year where Lestrade was Detective Inspector and Mycroft had a position in the British Government. Sherlock was the one to introduce them to each other, but not by choice. It was mannerisms, really. Mycroft noticed how Lestrade handled himself at crime scenes—very professional, tall, strong personality, worrisome (but Mycroft doesn't know why). Lestrade thinks the same thing about Mycroft, but doesn't dwell like Mycroft does about him (and he'd never know).

"Hello," Lestrade held out his hand toward Mycroft. Mycroft stared down at the hand, looking for signs, anything at all, that could explain this demeanor in a man. He sees nothing but the usual—work ethic is important to him, but not too important, as the hands are somewhat smooth. Fingernails are kept clean, so cleanliness is important (although how he manages to keep them clean at crime scenes bothers Mycroft). Before he can hold out his own hand, Sherlock pushed through the tense air.

"Please, Mycroft does not dwell on those that don't matter to him," Sherlock muttered as he bent over the body. Mycroft bit the inside of his lip, to not make matters worse between the brothers, but Lestrade noticed the rather noticeable frustration in the older brother. He pulled his hand back; Mycroft wished to hurt his brother. The hazel eyes staring at him focused on what Sherlock had said, and it would probably make the man want to stay away from him.

"Right," Lestrade muttered. Mycroft would not have it, not Sherlock's way.

"You act as though I am you, brother," Sherlock continued to examine the body on the ground, not looking up at the older sibling.

"You act as though you care, Mycroft."

"I do have acquaintances, and care about people," Sherlock continued to work.

"Oh, and I don't suppose you find free-time whenever possible to appreciate the company of these acquaintances? That assistant of yours is not an acquaintance. She is an assistant that works for you and does the work for you. Your other acquaintances are those that are diplomats and want your vote for certain treaties and different wars to enact. They certainly don't care more about you than you do about them. You'd wish they were dead." Mycroft chuckled; some of that was true.

"For goodness sakes, Sherlock, you act as though I am at fault for the world's troubles. At least I do not find it necessary to scare off anyone that comes within ten feet of you because you find their faults in a matter of seconds."

"Oh please, you do the same, you are just not as verbal about it. You were noticing how Lestrade can keep up with the sanctity of his appearance while working so diligently at a crime scene." Lestrade eyed Mycroft; he did nothing. "And you are the world's trouble. You are the British Government."

Lestrade just watched the two bicker back and forth. He could just imagine what it was like growing up for both of them, one attacking the other for no reason, just because they were bored. But what about the dinners? Oh, then he started to think about Christmas time with the extended family—did they have an extended family? Must be hell, he thought.

As he watched the two argue on and on (they were talking about their mother, and he didn't want to listen to _that_ argument), he noticed the field workers around just watch, too. But they wouldn't watch for long; they'd just happen to glance over, then mindlessly go back to work. Lestrade didn't mind; it took his mind off of his own work, he could let loose a little bit by observing. Wasn't their work revolved around observing others?

But he wasn't really looking at Sherlock. He was more or less looking at Mycroft. This mysterious man, the one in the British Government, who was he? For that matter, how were these two so different, yet so alike in one little way? He was not getting frustrated with his brother, just annoyed. And when he was annoyed, his smile grew. Who was this man?

"I will not stand idly by as I listen to your incandescent arrogance, Sherlock," Mycroft turned and started to walk away. Lestrade took a step forward between the two as Sherlock rose to his feet.

"Good evening, Mycroft. Do try and manage to work a little," Lestrade felt a headache coming along.

"You know," he spoke between the two; Mycroft kept walking, Sherlock looked down at the body. "You two are so much the same." Mycroft stopped; Sherlock turned his head.

"Hardly," Sherlock muttered. Mycroft turned around.

"We are not both sociopaths," Lestrade shook his head.

"No, no, not in that sense. You both, you're stubborn idiots," he said out loud. Sherlock stared at him with wide-eyes, flabbergasted that someone actually had the gall to say he was an idiot. Mycroft smirked. This Lestrade character, he thought, would be an absolute mystery.

"I suppose we are," he whispered. Neither of them heard him say it, as they were arguing about the silly statement. His assistant was right next to him.

"Sir, the car is ready," she said. He waited a moment before saying anything else.

"Right," he replied.

**III.**

The third time was on the phone. "Hello, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade," he calmly said. Mycroft knew who it was, and desperately wanted it to be someone else (he couldn't figure out why). But he had matters to attend to, and this was not one of them.

"How is my brother?" cried the other line. Lestrade leaned against the wall and watched people go in and out of the room next to him. He could also hear the man inside complain how filthy the woman's garment was, despite her cries that she had done her laundry the night before (to which Sherlock's response was "And yet the scoff marks near the hemline _must_ certainly mean you like to rock back and forth on the edge of a table"). Lestrade sighed.

"He's the usual," Mycroft chuckled on the other end.

"He is a troubling nuisance, we all know that. I meant his injuries, are they fatal?" Lestrade peeked in through the glass and noticed the woman storm away as Sherlock laid in the bed.

"No, it's just a few busted ribs. He'll live," Unfortunately, Lestrade thought. But he didn't want to risk saying that to his older brother. Mycroft spun in his chair and typed away a few letters on his computer and waited for the page to load. While he stared, he thought about his brother (Lestrade was doing the same, but more or less about the last thought he had about Sherlock). What was he supposed to do? Was he supposed to do the brotherly thing, or let him live like that and make sure he gets better?

Lestrade, on the other hand, was trying to think of something to say—or perhaps a way to say goodbye. But for some reason, he wanted to stay on the line. It was nice to hear someone else's voice on the line _other_ than work. He stared at the floor and bit his nails; what _would_ he say to a man of power? He only met him once or twice.

"Should…" Mycroft began. The page loaded and he looked at the picture on the screen. He would never forget those eyes, not for a long time. He typed a few more words, then hit enter. The screen created a list—more like a history. Mycroft tried to scan everything, but the words went too fast.

Lestrade jumped at the word, unaware that something was eating Mycroft alive as well. "I'm sorry?" Lestrade moved away from the doorway to try and hear Mycroft. This time, Sherlock was yelling at the doctor for not getting enough sleep the night before. Lestrade kept the phone against his ear, intently listening to the noises on the other end. There were none.

The history finished. Mycroft scrolled to the top of the page and began to read. His eyes widened as soon as he hit the first school the person attended. Lestrade suddenly heard a few noises, perhaps a desk drawer opening and closing in the blink of an eye, followed by rustling papers. "Are you okay?" Mycroft stopped flipping through the papers and looked down at the messy handwriting. But there was his answer, staring back at him. He smiled. But then the words dawned on him. Had anyone really asked if he was okay recently? He couldn't recall.

"Yes, I am well, thank you," he replied, "but I must cut our conversation short. It seems I have matters that need attending. Shall I expect an update on my brother later this evening?" Lestrade felt flustered, rushing through everything that Mycroft was saying. It was so abrupt.

"Oh, yes, of course, Mycroft, but-" Mycroft smirked and laid the old notebook flat on the desk.

"That'll be all," and the phone went dead. Lestrade stared at his phone for a good minute before shaking his head in disbelief. Had he…just been blown off by someone? He never was before, so maybe that was what it was like. He shrugged and ventured back into the room (Sherlock asked where he had been, but quickly guessed it the moment he asked).

Mycroft, on the other hand, felt the need to rest the phone in his lap and stare down at the piece of paper ahead of him. His eyes would flicker back and forth between the screen and paper, but all he could do was repeat the same name over and over again, as if it were the only name he knew. Suddenly his heart started to race, excited at the new information he had gained. Suddenly his heart ached, because he was finally able to crack a long, cold mystery since his childhood.

"Lestrade," he whispered, as he leaned back in his chair. _"The name's Greg, but everyone calls me Lestrade!"_ Mycroft smiled. He reached for his desk phone and dialed a few numbers before getting through to his assistant immediately.

"Sir," she responded.

"Prepare the surveillance," he replied. The line went dead.

**IV.**

The fourth time was all on Mycroft's part. It was a few weeks later, after Sherlock being in the hospital, when Lestrade said "hello" to him. But it wasn't the first time that Mycroft saw or heard Lestrade since the hospital. There were other times.

They met over a few different instances since the hospital incident that involved Sherlock (Mycroft left him there on purpose for a few more days, ine order to not cause more trouble for the Detective Inspector), but none of the occurrences happened at prolonged times. They were minimal—either Lestrade had to leave to get back to work, or Mycroft had to catch a plan (or assess diplomats when arriving in the city).

The first time was at a cafe. Mycroft was in line with his assistant (he never cared for coffee; he was more of the tea person) and she wanted a cup to get through the rest of the night. The person ahead of them was still deciding on what to get when he heard the bell behind him ring; he didn't turn around. He hated public places, especially those that involved the brainless. He closed his eyes in frustration as he listened to the person drone on about the coffee he wanted (Mycroft had no time for this).

"Oh, Mycroft!" He immediately opened his eyes. He knew that voice. Mycroft turned his head and saw the slightly smaller man do a little wave. "I didn't expect you to be here," Mycroft smirked.

"Ah, Detective Inspector, the same could be said to you," Lestrade grunted.

"There's no need for formalities—call me Lestrade," he replied. Mycroft nodded. He'd have to make a note of that to call him Lestrade as many times as possible. He couldn't quite call him "Greg" yet, but he'd work his way to that somehow. "And I'm only here for the pastries they have. Quick bite to eat before I get back to the station," Mycroft felt his assistant move and saw her at the desk, ordering.

Mycroft stood next to Lestrade and chatted away as she ordered. They must've talked for five, maybe ten minutes, each one just listening to the other's story. Mycroft mainly talked about the establishment; Lestrade asked about his well-being, and added to the conversation about everyday life. When his assistant had her drink in hand, she moved away from the desk. Mycroft moved in front of it and bought Lestrade a turnover.

Lestrade stood next to him. "It's not necessary to buy for me," he grabbed the pastry from the girl behind the desk as Mycroft handed her the loose change in his hand. "I could've bought it myself." Mycroft smiled.

"Yes, but you'll be grateful for that dessert and for still having a few pounds in your pocket," Lestrade smiled and broke the treat in half. Mycroft stared down at his hands and at the half Lestrade was offering.

"Yeah, and you'll be wanting some of this later," Mycroft gladly took the dessert and watched as Lestrade began to move away. When Mycroft wanted to call to him, Lestrade beat him to it. "Good seeing ya," and out the door he went. Mycroft glanced at the treat in his hand and sighed.

The other time they bumped into each other was in a public street. It was actually in front of Mycroft's work. Mycroft was about to enter his car when he saw someone running down the street and hearing someone yell "Stop him!" farther down the street. When Mycroft turned to see who was yelling, he was surprised to see the familiar Detective Inspector _running_. Mycroft immediately turned in the criminal's direction and quickly nodded to whatever was there—soon enough, the criminal was on the ground.

Lestrade slowed down and started to catch his breath next to Mycroft. He looked over at his colleague, one that had to just nod to catch a criminal. As he gasped for air, he noticed Mycroft stare back. Lestrade noticed just how much power the man had over everything around him. Was he like that all the time? "How…did…you do that?" Lestrade managed to let out. More police officers ran past them as they stood next to each other.

Mycroft smiled. "It comes with the Government," he replied. Lestrade looked to him in awe as he stood there. It was quite an amazing feat. "Lestrade, this has been the second time we've seen each other in the past week. Should I be worried you are, perhaps, stalking me?" Lestrade let out a chuckle and felt flushed.

"You're the Government; it's the other way around."

And that's where they ended up then. Mycroft was sitting in the car, with a laptop in hand, surveillance on the screen. Mycroft had to deny it in front of Lestrade, but since his chat on the phone with Lestrade, he couldn't help but do a little spying on him (and by a little, he meant five secret cameras set in each room of the flat, except the bathroom). Lestrade would do little things here and there that would intrigue Mycroft, like how he folded clothes in his bedroom, how he made tea, and why he watched certain shows. Otherwise, it was him working on files and staying up later than usual to get them finished.

Of course they texted each other back and forth, mostly because Mycroft wanted to distract him to see how he would react. Some texts had no meaning to them, but had Lestrade looking for answers (_Sleep is of the essence – MH_) while others had something behind them (_The criminal from the other day wanted to kill your brother. – GL; He wouldn't have succeeded, not with us to save him – MH; Us? You stopped him – GL; And you found him. Can't have one without the other – MH; No, I suppose not – GL_).

His assistant kept typing away at her Blackberry as he did the same with his laptop. He shifted the cameras to see him; Lestrade was just sitting at a desk. He was writing in something; Mycroft couldn't tell, the cameras were a little outdated. They were short sentences, or thoughtful ones. Lestrade would pause after a moment to think about something, then go back to writing. It wasn't a police file, because they were resting on the couch near the window. No, this was an ordinary notebook. Was it a diary?

Mycroft continued to watch. He felt invasive, but he couldn't help but be interested with the man. Something sparked the interest, and he wanted to know what. Maybe it was the charm, or perhaps the personality. Maybe the strong work ethic—no, it was clear Lestrade was tired from work. He brought up numerous files from Lestrade's childhood and adulthood, and learned about him inside and out. But he was still a mystery.

And Mycroft hated being kept in the dark about things. His car door opened and he slid out, leaving the laptop there for his assistant. He stood under the streetlight and looked to the building in front of him. "I want the car ready in five minutes," he said to the person. The person obliged and he walked into the building.

Meanwhile, Lestrade had been writing. He didn't know why he was writing, but it was Sally's idea. "Well, maybe you can write about it," she suggested. It was his first time writing something that personal; his other entries were mostly about work and his irritation with Sherlock. It was nice to vent to something that could not judge. In other entries, he was coherent, organized, thoughtful. In this entry, however, he was abrupt with his sentences, all over the place, and he clearly made no sense. He threw down the pen in disgust and ruffled his hair with his hands.

How he could be interested in a man was beyond his judgment. Men were always his "area" (Sherlock liked to deem it that), but this one particular man. Was it because he was a higher up? Was he really that desperate to like a man in the Government? No, he thought, he was not that silly. He had qualities that he liked: charm, style, poise, manners—he had it all, really. Lestrade stared at the wall ahead. Of course a dream guy like that is a once in a lifetime chance, but the chance was slim. He only saw him at certain times, random times for that matter. Maybe he ought to start stalking him, he thought. Lestrade smiled and shook his head.

Or maybe Mycroft was stalking him. He let out a small laugh; if that were the case, then—

Suddenly, a knock at the door. Mycroft stood at the door, looking at the doorknob. It was hardly touched—and Mycroft knew that. Lestrade barely came home sometimes, making work his home. The door was old, cracking in some places. He'd have to find a way to replace it. Lestrade turned to look at the door behind him and stared. Who was asking for him at that time of night? He closed the notebook and sat there some more. Then another knock; so someone really wanted to see him! "Coming, coming," he said, loud enough for the person to hear.

Mycroft stepped away from the door and stood there. He knew Lestrade was in there. He looked down at the file in his hand. He wasn't exactly sure if it would work, but it was worth a shot. And in politics, that was all you had. Lestrade started pulling away the locks, anxious to see who it was. With his luck, it would be Sherlock or Donovan—most likely Sherlock, ready to ramble on about details—

He opened the door and saw the other Holmes standing there. His first reaction was shock, then confusion, then joy, then confusion again. "Oh, hello Mycroft," he said, standing in the doorway.

Mycroft replied back with a smile on his face, "Lestrade. I do hope I am not interrupting anything this evening."

Lestrade shook his head. "No, no, not at all, you're not intruding. You can come in if you'd like." Mycroft wished he had more time and to take him up on the offer, but he couldn't waste the night spying on his interest—he had other matters to attend to (a few that involved Lestrade himself). Mycroft held up his hand and just continued to smile.

"I'm afraid I do not have much time. I only came by to drop off a case for you," Lestrade watched Mycroft's hand raise and hold out a manila-colored file. It had no writing on it; it was just a file.

Lestrade looked up at Mycroft, who now had lost his smile, and looked back down at the file. "A case?" He grabbed hold of the other end.

Mycroft nodded. "Yes, it's a rather cold case, from years ago," Lestrade listened as he scanned the item at hand. It was from years ago—back from when he was a child. "I want to see if you can gather any new evidence from the case, see if it can be less…" Mycroft paused, waiting for the right word to come, but Lestrade spoke first.

He looked up from the file. "Cold?"

Mycroft chuckled. "Right, cold," he agreed. Lestrade smirked. They shared eye contact for a moment—who knew how long it was—before breaking apart. Lestrade broke the stare.

"Oh, well, I'll definitely look into it," Mycroft smiled.

"I expect to see you tomorrow at the park in question. I'd like to go over the case there, if you do not mind," Lestrade looked for the place; it was a playground. It used to be a school, but it closed down years ago and was now just a playground. He didn't see why not, the station didn't need him for anything important. He nodded and leaned against the doorframe as he closed the file. Mycroft slightly breathed in a little more air than usual and watched Lestrade.

"Yeah, I can be there. What time would you want to meet?" Mycroft looked down at his watch (partially because of the car, and the other part he need not mention).

"Perhaps around 2 in the afternoon?" Lestrade thought for a moment.

Then he answered. "Sounds good," he said.

"Good." Lestrade stared at Mycroft—he always wore a suit, no matter where he went. First it was the brown one, then another shade of brown, and there he was wearing a black pinstriped suit. He somehow went to wondering what he would look like in a different color, perhaps white. Or blue. He blinked and looked into Mycroft's brown eyes. "Are you sure you can't come in? I can make a quick cup," Mycroft shook his head.

Unfortunately, he thought. "Afraid I cannot stay. It was a mere quick visit."

Lestrade understood. "Yeah, well, I better get some rest for tomorrow, look over the file before I see you then." Mycroft felt an anxious feeling in his chest, one that would not go away because of other thoughts. He wanted it to be daylight.

There was a slight pause. They never really said goodbye to the other; there were only hellos. How would they go about this? Mycroft awkwardly stood in the hallway before opening his mouth. "Well," he said, stepping away from the doorway, "it was good seeing you again," Mycroft wanted to use 'lovely' instead of 'good', but would it have been awkward? He didn't know.

Lestrade smiled and nodded in return. "Yes, we should do it more often." Mycroft smiled.

"Good evening, Lestrade."

"The same goes for you." Mycroft turned around and began walking down the stairs; he didn't hear a door close when he left the building. And when he looked down at his watch, his smile grew.

It seemed that they talked for six minutes.

**V.**

Mycroft sat on a park bench near the playground. He spent almost the entire night preparing for this visit, including completing a plan that involved Lestrade. He had someone infiltrate the apartment and retrieve the diary for Mycroft, just for a few minutes—and research, he told himself. When flipping through the entries, he noticed most of them were from work. But an obscure, out-of-place entry stopped him. It was not dated, it was not themed like the rest of them. It was just rambling. "I shouldn't think." Mycroft wondered what he meant. But he didn't reflect; he returned the black book to its rightful owner.

Mycroft looked around and watched the people around. There were plenty of his accomplices around to watch the two of them, whenever Lestrade would arrive, so there was no worry about safety. But he liked to people-watch, sometimes, perhaps observe them and take a gander at their political standings in society. None of them interested him. He glanced down at his watch; it was 1:50. He arrived a little early, to perhaps collect his thoughts and gather up a conclusion.

What had been thinking about? Not much. He hadn't planned out much of the meeting that day, but knew a concrete story that Lestrade would believe. It was a fake file, a fake case. The case was actually profiling Mycroft and Lestrade as kids, but Mycroft deemed it a kidnapping. And it was a kidnapping; Mycroft never knew what happened to Lestrade until he suddenly appeared in his life again. He disappeared, and Mycroft feared the worst.

Lestrade was walking with the file in his hand. Honestly, he had nothing to go on for the case. No wonder it was a cold case—the kid just disappeared. And it seemed like the witness sounded like a kid. He sighed. Maybe it was the lack of sleep that was messing with his thought process. Or maybe it was his own thought process messing with his thoughts. It could've been both, he really didn't know.

He made it to the playground and looked down at his watch; it read 1:54. He was a little early, but he looked around. Maybe there were areas that were easy spots to watch children at. But the layout had changed so much since the case that it was very hard to assess. He sighed; nothing was ever easy, was it? Lestrade looked around. He kind of expected Mycroft to have been there already, seeing how he was always the time guru, or something. Part of him wanted Mycroft to be there already; the other part wanted to take a deep breath and hope he wouldn't suddenly arrive.

Lestrade started to look around the park. He wasn't on the playground, well that was a good try. He was getting a little worried. What if he was being spied on right now (meanwhile, Mycroft just sat on a bench, looking down at a little pebble near his feet)? What if Mycroft wouldn't show up (meanwhile, Mycroft still sat on the bench)? Or worse, what if he was over-reacting (meanwhile, Mycroft was thinking the same thing)? He couldn't tell.

But he continued to look. He didn't know why, he could've just sat in one spot and waited for the man. He was probably on his way anyway. But Lestrade walked around a bit, looking for the man that would most likely be wearing a suit. He glanced down at his watch again: 1:56. He had to be back at the station by, at the latest, 3. He sighed; sometimes, he could not catch a break.

But then he did. He saw a familiar body resting on a bench, just calmly sitting there. He was in the shade underneath a grand oak tree. Lestrade was right, he was in a suit. This one was an all black suit, which looked marvelous on him. Then he stopped—did he really just think Mycroft looked somewhat attractive in a suit? Huh, he thought. It was a first time for everything.

He continued to walk down the little hill. How long had he been waiting there? Was it long? Lestrade began to panic again. What if Mycroft was irritated with him, because he was sitting there for a long time (meanwhile, Mycroft didn't mind; it kept him out of the office)? He took a deep breath and quickly walked over to him.

"Ah, hello, Mycroft." Mycroft jumped from his thoughts and immediately turned to the voice. He saw Lestrade smiling down at him as he looked with those lovely hazel eyes (he had to stop complimenting Lestrade's looks in his thoughts, or else). Mycroft rose from the bench and smiled back.

"Shall we?" He asked. Lestrade nodded. They went over the fake case, with Mycroft not listening and Lestrade giving advice. Mycroft would sometimes nod, agree with some of the points he was giving, and Lestrade would do his best. Somehow, Lestrade wanted to make him proud, to show that he could do something amazing like solve a cold case. They walked side-by-side, not holding hands (neither one dared to make a move), but just brushing against each other once in a great while. And when that happened, they didn't look at the other; they were just flustered.

Mycroft and Lestrade walked over to the playground. "Have you been on a swingset before, Mycroft?" Mycroft looked over at him. Was he that weird that maybe, just maybe, he never swung on a swing before? He didn't want to think about that.

"Yes, in fact, but it has been a very long time," he replied.

Lestrade nodded, smiling away. "The same can be said to me," Lestrade started to wander on the playground. He looked around at all the little kids running around, some having their friends. There was one sitting on a tire swing, just sitting there. And he saw a little boy rush over to the boy, just to talk. He smiled and looked at Mycroft, forgetting he was there on business. "Sorry, it's been a while. And someone's with me now."

Mycroft understood. "No trouble at all, Lestrade. Tell me, when was the last time you were on a swingset?" Lestrade hummed a low tune; Mycroft held back a guttural sound.

"Oh," he groaned. When _was_ the last time? "Maybe elementary? It's been a very long time," Lestrade added.

"Quite right." Lestrade was the first to go to the swings. Mycroft just watched him. If he were to be honest (and he always was) he would tell whoever would listen that it made him feel like a child again. He was seeing the child in Lestrade again, seeing his childhood friend coming up to him and talking like there was no tomorrow. And tomorrow, sadly, never came for Mycroft. He wondered if Lestrade felt lonely, and a tinge of sadness for leaving Mycroft. Was Mycroft angry at Lestrade? Not in the slightest; he was back in his life, after all.

Did he like Lestrade like that? It was probable. When Lestrade left the first time, it broke his heart. It was the first boy that actually wanted to be near him, the first boy he liked. It was his first little crush. And like his mother said: "You can never forget your first like or love, Mycroft." Lestrade wrapped his fingers around the warm chains and continued to glow; Mycroft watched him sit down in one. "It's been a long time," he mumbled.

Mycroft felt obligated to sit in one, too, but Lestrade turned to him and said: "You don't have to swing. You're in a suit, I don't think you want to ruin it." Mycroft smirked.

"Nonsense, a suit can be replaced, and I have tons back home. Besides, there is no national security danger swinging with someone," Mycroft replied. Lestrade chuckled.

"No, I suppose not," he lightly started to swing. Soon enough, they both didn't remember why they were there (Lestrade rested the file on the ground). They were both swinging away, but not like the other kids. They were just swinging in the same rhythm, very lightly, and together again. Mycroft was more or less reflecting on his past, and how he had been there before; Lestrade was, too, but he didn't remember who Mycroft was. All he saw was a little boy he knew he was drawn to the moment he met him.

Mycroft then remembered something. "You say you had not swung with someone in ages. Any specific reason as to why it happened? Do children not wish to swing alone?" Lestrade looked over at Mycroft, who was barely holding onto the swing. He was almost swaying back and forth.

"Well, I don't remember much, but when I was really young, I remember meeting a kid on the playground," Mycroft could feel his heart race. His face did nothing. "I don't remember his name-" Lestrade noticed a little flinch near his eyes. But he continued. "—but all I remember is being happy with the kid, ya know? As a child, you appreciate everything. I appreciated the boy's company. But then I had to move away." Mycroft's eyebrow arched. Yes, he didn't even need to ask about it. Lestrade smiled. "Nothing serious, just my mom needed to relocate for a job."

He remembered reading that in the history of Lestrade. He needed confirmation. "Anyway, everyone else I wanted to swing with didn't think it was fun. So I stopped. I know, it sounds stupid, but a part of me wanted my old friend back, even if I knew him for a day," Mycroft felt his heart ache again. It was the exact same feeling he felt back in his childhood, back when he found out who Lestrade really was, back only moments ago when reflecting on his past. It was just for a day that he knew Lestrade, but it felt like he met him at childbirth and grew up together.

Mycroft shook his head. "Stupidity is not amongst us, Lestrade."

Lestrade smiled. "Yeah," he whispered. Lestrade could only smile at Mycroft (meanwhile, Mycroft did the same back) and feel a great wave of peace come over him while being there with Mycroft. Then there was a twinkle in his eye. "Say, have you the time to swing?" He felt nervous for asking such a question, but he wanted to spend as much time as possible with him before going back to the dreadful station. Mycroft was taken aback. No one ever asked to swing with him except Lestrade, and it was years ago. And there they were there, sitting on the swings, waiting to relive their childhood.

"All in the world, in fact," and it was true. Mycroft cancelled anything and everything that could be cancelled, just to spend more time with Lestrade. So they began to swing. They would look to the ground, then to the sky, and sometimes back at each other, to make sure they were both having fun (they were). Lestrade had the widest grin on his face; Mycroft felt alive again.

They stayed on the swings for another twenty minutes, both chatting away about whatever they could. It was mostly small talk, but Mycroft was informed a little more about Lestrade, like what he liked to eat the most (steak), what his favorite color was (green), and how his hair was silver (he blamed it on aging). Lestrade was the same way, what with learning about Mycroft, like things about his personality (he was humorous), his wardrobe (turns out Mycroft did have some casual clothing after all), and what he liked to eat the most (fish).

At the end of their rendezvous, Lestrade was the first to slow down his swinging. Mycroft followed suit. "There are times when I wish I could stay away from the station," Lestrade started. Mycroft wished the same thing. "but I have to get back." Mycroft slid his shoes across the sand (he'd have to get a new pair on his feet when he got back to the car) and saw Lestrade come to a halt as well. Sadly, he smiled, and Mycroft could only stare.

"Work is work," he replied. Lestrade frowned.

"Yeah, well, work can be a bit dull sometimes," Lestrade pushed himself off the swing and started to stretch; Mycroft didn't move. People would say he was "admiring the view"; he was merely watching the man stretch. "But, today was fun."

Mycroft saw him spin around, looking down at Mycroft. And he couldn't help but smile. He relived his past, saw the man he thought he liked (he did) and spent more time with him than any other instances with him. If there were a way to describe the day, perfection would not do it justice. Lestrade held out a hand, waiting to be touched. Mycroft wasted no time and reached out to touch the palm. It felt wonderful again, with just the right amount of edginess and smoothness to make him happy. Lestrade shrugged.

"I'll apologize now if the cold case will remain cold," Mycroft laughed.

"We may have a few more leads thanks to you, Detective Inspector," Lestrade felt flushed. He told Mycroft to use his last name for a reason.

"Oh, well, it's just work. Thank you, for the little swinging accident," Mycroft wanted to say 'any time', but didn't know if it was strange (Lestrade wished he said it). Lestrade pulled his hand away; Mycroft felt his hand was cold again, but rested it against the chain. The smile remained. "Good afternoon, Mycroft."

And away he started to go. Mycroft started to rock back and forth on the swing, watching Lestrade walk away. Lestrade didn't know whether to look back or to keep walking—would it have been weird? Maybe, but normal people looked back. Mycroft was not normal, not in the slightest. What would he say the next time they saw each other—if they even saw each other again?"Were you looking for me to be following you?" Lestrade sighed. He just stared at his phone.

Mycroft, on the other hand, continued to swing away. He reminisced on the past, doing the same thing he was doing years ago, waiting for Lestrade to return. But he didn't want to wait; he was a very impatient man (with Lestrade, he could wait). He was a man of action, one that got whatever he fought for. And he would fight, oh how he would fight. When Lestrade was on the other side of the park, clearly not returning, he rose from the swings and frowned.

He'd have to devise a plan.

And it'd have to involve his brother, of all people.

**x x x x x x x x x x x x x**

_**And the one time...**_

**VI.**

They were at another crime scene. It was the fifth killing that week, and Lestrade was showing the exhaustion, if others weren't. He had paperwork to go through that was two weeks old, had to get forensics paperwork done (which was a killer sometimes), and still had to deal with Sherlock. Not so much John, but Sherlock was the nuisance that would be the death of him. Lestrade wasn't listening much to their bantering about the case; he wasn't in the mood.

It had been almost a week since the swings. He had no contact with Mycroft, which made looking at his phone unbearable. Every time the phone rang, he would look for the familiar name. When someone was knocking on the door, he would quickly open the door to see if it was a familiar face. Lestrade couldn't complain—it kept him on the edge, but at what cost?

He would have to try and stop thinking about him, but that was not going to happen, not anytime soon. Everywhere he went, he secretly hoped Mycroft would be there, like at the café (he visited that every day, hoping the assistant needed coffee), and even went back to the park to see if he was there (no, but the swings were empty). He had a feeling that maybe someday he'd just turn up. But he was part of the Government; he didn't have time for someone like himself.

Sherlock was on his phone, texting someone. Lestrade frankly didn't care who Sherlock was texting, whether it was a friend (no, he didn't have any friends) or some enemy he passed on the street. But he had to ask. "Have you anything about the body on the ground, or are you going to text all day?" Sherlock clicked a button and shoved the phone in his pocket.

"Happy now?" Lestrade didn't know whether to take it in a bad way or a good way, but he did a slight nod. Sherlock bent down and started to examine more of the body, mumbling to himself while Lestrade looked around the crime scene. Forensics was standing by, waiting for their chance to take care of the body, while more police officers barricaded the scene. But he knew he was looking for someone else. He looked back down at the body and felt a raindrop hit his head. If his day could get any worse, it would start storming.

Which it did, and everyone pulled out their umbrellas—including Sherlock, to his surprise. He sighed. Yes, it could get worse.

Meanwhile, Mycroft was walking on the crime scene. He stayed within the crowd that had circulated the body (really, what was there to see?) while walking with his assistant. They both had their umbrellas high above their heads while their feet sloshed around in the puddles below.

"Sir, do try not to cause a scene at a crime scene, the diplomats might become impatient if your personal life is somehow leaked," she muttered. Mycroft smirked.

"Diplomats can wait, Anthea," he replied. And it was true, they could. It would take twenty minutes of his time, if not less. And while he did care about his appearances with other countries, he waited long enough.

"Would you like me to get the car?" Mycroft went under the yellow tape as the man in the uniform let him in (he was an accomplice, which was always nice).

He didn't respond; she just went away. The rain started to fall much harder on the scene (most of the crowd was dispersing) and he stared at the two men ahead of him. One was a familiar back, one he was used to seeing; the other was his brother. He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket and smirked. He told Sherlock the night before to text him if a new body was found, so he could oversee the investigation.

_You are not needed on crime scenes. You should be saving lives. – SH_

_Yes, but there are other matters to attend to besides dead bodies and politics. – MH_

_What else could there be? – SH_

_Just do as you are told, brother, before this escalates into a much bigger feud. – MH_

_Fine – SH_

He stuffed his hand in his pocket and took out the small phone. It was not up-to-date with the latest technology, but some things didn't need to be updated all the time. Plus, he was afraid of being too flashy around Lestrade—he liked simplicity.

_New body. Lestrade will be aggravated by my texting in seconds. – SH_

He knew. He followed the police radios, knew someone in a certain branch to listen to each one, and waited for the one voice to boom through the speakers. He smiled when he heard the voice talk back. He knew it was time—plus, the forecast called for rain. It was perfect.

So he began to walk. He wanted to run, but it would make too much noise; he just hoped Sherlock would not turn around and feel his presence. He was always so keen on his aura. He made it through numerous puddles, dodged the questions from other officers (they just eyed him) and continued to walk. He knew what he was going to do. He was just popping in to say hello, that's all he was doing.

Lestrade felt the air turn cold as the rain continued to fall on him. He listened to Sherlock, but after a while, he was more focused on getting dry. He slightly shook his head, wishing his hair was not a mess (Mycroft noticed; it didn't look too bad after all the rain that fell on him). Then, somehow, the rain stopped. Well, it didn't around him, but on him it did. He noticed an umbrella hanging over his head. He looked up and saw how wide it was, how magnificently grand it looked, too. It even looked brand new.

When he turned to see who it was, he wasn't prepared. He noticed the brown pinstriped suit, with a golden chain looped around the front. His pocket watch was carefully tucked away. Lestrade saw a small smile on his face. "Oh!" He managed to say.

Mycroft wasn't ready. Well, he was, but was he ready for what was going to happen? He hated reading other people's feeling, their emotions—it was always so tiresome. But when he saw Lestrade that close, when he had him so close to his body and felt his small heat radiate off his body, Mycroft knew it was time.

Lestrade became flustered. He hadn't acted like a child since, well, he was a child. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other (Mycroft noticed his nervousness and tried to stay collected himself) and rubbed his head with his hand (Mycroft's grip on the umbrella tightened). "Um, he-" Lestrade stopped talking, but not because he wanted to stop. No, he would've said "Hello, Mycroft", but Mycroft would have none of that.

So he kissed him.

It was a gentle kiss, pretty tender. Mycroft could not let it go past a small peck on the lips, but he managed to get a feel for them. They were soft, wet (from the rain), and had a few cracks from stress. Lestrade, meanwhile, couldn't control his thoughts to even begin to fathom about Mycroft's lips. It was bad enough he was surprised by Mycroft for just arriving at the crime scene, but then that happened. He couldn't focus.

Mycroft pulled away as soon as he dipped down. Lestrade's face was red; Mycroft's had a small tinge of red over his cheeks. "I've noticed, Lestrade," Lestrade couldn't look him in the eye. "that your hellos are always so polite and repetitious. I felt the need for spontaneity, so I do apologize if it causes any inconvenience on your behalf. It was probably very rude of me, but mannerisms are very hard to keep up with, wouldn't you agree?"

Lestrade just stared (meanwhile, Sherlock shook his head at the sight before him; there was a time and place for personal problems). All of his thoughts stopped as soon as he said those words. He looked up at Mycroft, watching him. But then Lestrade broke out into a small laugh, one that Mycroft did not understand. Had he done something wrong? Did he not read Lestrade correctly? Lestrade gave a small push against Mycroft chest. "You bloke, why would it cause an inconvenience?"

Mycroft sighed in relief. But Lestrade continued on. "Have my greetings been bothering you?"

Mycroft shook his head. "On the contrary, Greg," Lestrade arched an eyebrow and felt his cheeks heat up. No one ever called him Greg, unless in a personal setting.

"You know my first name?" Mycroft nodded.

"Yes" was all he said. Lestrade didn't want to ask how and went back to the conversation at hand.

"But you called them repetitious."

Mycroft smiled. "Yes, and I just said hello to you. It changes things up a bit, wouldn't you agree?"

Lestrade shook his head with a big smile on his face. "Yeah, I suppose." He would never understand the mind of the Holmes'. Would he actually want to know? Maybe not Sherlock's, but Mycroft's wouldn't be too much of a bother.

They were going to stare for another moment, but Sherlock ruined it. "If you two are done reacquainting yourselves, there is a case needed to be done," he muttered. Mycroft's lip twitched in annoyance and glanced at his brother.

"Surely you do not need us to affirm that it was someone that prowled the street in the middle of the night looking for women in their late thirties, possibly just looking for prostitutes to kill, and she was, in fact, not a prostitute but an airline pilot? She was stabbed from behind, but it was not planned that way. The man left trace evidence from where the body lies, leading up to the sidewalk and heading west. The blood will lead you to an apartment building a few blocks down, then disappear when the man entered. The suspect lives there." Lestrade just watched in amazement as Mycroft figured out the mystery and didn't even have to look.

Sherlock grimaced. "You are never needed at these scenes, brother," Mycroft looked back at Lestrade and smiled.

"I'm sure your men can handle finding the man at this rate." Lestrade noticed Mycroft begin to walk. He started to move his legs with him, following him wherever he went.

"It's all fine, Mycroft, but where are you going?"

Mycroft turned his head and stared down at his new companion. "I've heard there's a nice café down the street with lovely pastries. I think we should stop at the place first." Lestrade smiled, bumping his shoulder into Mycroft's arm.

"I've heard lovely things about that place too. Sounds like a good plan to me," Mycroft nodded.

"Yes, I think so too."

Mycroft hated simple hellos, sure. They really were repetitious. But when he felt fingers close the spaces between his own, he didn't mind them after all, because it all started with a simple hello years ago (Lestrade still didn't know but what he didn't know wouldn't hurt him, not for a while, at least).

_"Hello. The name's Greg, but I like being called Lestrade."_

_"I'm Mycroft."_

_"I know who you are! All the kids talk about you!"_

_"Do you talk about me?"_

_"No, but I'd like to get to know you and be your friend."_

_"I'd like that too. Very much so."_


End file.
